


A Straight and Narrow Sort of Fellow

by Byacolate



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Dirty Thoughts, F/M, Foot Jobs, How Jack Morrison Gets His Groove Back
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 07:41:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8658361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate
Summary: Conventional diplomacy never got anyone laid.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Commissioned by an anonymous Tumblr user who wanted a very naughty Soldier 76 thirsting hard for Widowmaker, and getting his groove back in the process. Ta-da!

He fires a triad of helix rockets and the training bot across the room bursts. It sparks and shrieks, a little too sentient for Jack’s comfort, but he knows in time it’ll get pieced back together. Piece itself back together. He’s never really asked Winston how the whole thing... works. 

 

“Again!” Hana cheers from the sideline. Beside her, Lúcio pumps his fist into the air and whoops. 

 

“That was nuts, man! Percussion and bass!  _ Buh-boom-ksshaw! _ You gotta show me how that thing ticks!”

 

Jack harrumphs, tilting his chin up when it makes Hana grin. “What am I to you two, a trained monkey?”

 

“You know it, old man,” Hana crows, lifting her phone and aiming it right at him. From the look of the model, the shape and size, Jack’s recognition flickers. Once upon a time, he had one just like it when that kind of tech was shiny and new. He figures some old models are coming back into fashion. Certifiably retro. He grimaces under his visor. “C’mon! One more for the highlight reel!”

 

With a glow and a reedy sigh, the shattered robot pieces itself back together for the umpteenth time this afternoon. _The attention span of the youth really is astounding,_ comes Jack’s wry thought as he drags the pulse rifle down from his shoulder and cocks it to the delight of the peanut gallery. 

 

He sighs the sigh of the old dog he is and readies his tenth helix rocket blast.

 

Well. At least he’s  _ entertaining. _

 

* * *

  
  


“This tastes like shit,” Jack grouses, pulling the beer from his mouth and squinting skeptically at the label.

 

“Good shit,” McCree says, pointing one finger while the rest keep a firm grip on the bottle in his hand. “Imported shit.  _ Pricey _ shit.”

 

“Still shit.”

 

Reinhardt bellows with laughter, slapping his gargantuan thigh and downing half the bottle in one long pull. “You wouldn’t know a quality beer if it bit you! This is an excellent choice, Jesse.”

 

McCree preens, his smugness dampened only somewhat when Reinhardt claps a hand to his shoulder and a bit of the “excellent” brew sloshes down the front of his serape. “Son of a...” he grumbles, flicking it off. Jack snorts.

 

“Aren’t you gonna suck it outta the cloth if it’s so damn good?” he asks, taking another sip. McCree guffaws.

 

“You ain’t cute enough to be petty, Commander. I’m gonna get ideas if you keep talkin’ about me and suckin’, though.”

 

“You’d think it’d be easier for you to keep it in your pants, what with that godawful belt buckle,” Jack muses. Jesse taps the gaudy thing with pride.

 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

 

Jack smirks.

 

“Not even a little.”

 

Jesse cocks his bottle in mock salute and takes a swig before he leans forward, elbows to his knees.

 

For a time it’s quiet, pocketed in the rec room in the middle of the night, though that doesn’t last long. McCree clears his throat, taps his boot on the ground. “Dunno how I feel about bein’ lumped in with the grandpa twins when everyone else retired at a sensible hour. No offense.”

 

“None taken, grandson!”

 

“Plenty taken,” Jack grouses, eyes narrowed. McCree grins like a goddamn jackal.

 

“I’d say old age soured you, but.” He shrugs. “Knew you before, didn’t I.”

 

Jack shrugs, leaning back into the sofa cushions. “You’re no spring chicken yourself. Especially now that you’ve recruited a gaggle of children to compare yourself to.” If he didn’t know better, he could’ve sworn Gabriel had a hand in half of the damn roster.

 

“That what you’re doin’, old timer?” Jesse grins.

 

“The hell I am,” Jack grumbles. Thinks. Sighs. “Damn if they don’t make a man feel his years a little more...”

 

“Keenly?” Reinhardt supplies. Jack shrugs again.

 

“Yeah. You relate?” Jack asks.

 

“Not at all!” crows Reinhardt, spreading an arm over the back of the sofa. “I’ve never felt younger!”

 

“’Course not, big fella.” McCree taps his glass to Reinhardt’s and they drink together, the bastards. Jesse sighs and scratches at his furry jaw. “You know what you need to get your shit together again...”

 

Jack holds himself back from his third shave-related comment of the day, but only just. “I’m not a betting man, but I’d put money on the chances I don’t want to know whatever horseshit’s about to come out of your mouth.”

 

“You’ve gotta get you some.”

 

Jack scoffs. “Some peace and quiet.”

 

“Some tail, you ol’ geezer. I know you remember the stuff. Or you would if you’d dust off the ol’ memory for somethin’ other’n angst.”

 

“I remember beatin’ your ass pretty fondly,” Jack muses. McCree winks.

 

“Ain’t no proof of that anymore, y’ senile jackass. You can brush off my sage advice if you like, but lord knows it worked for me.”

 

“What did? Getting your ass beat?”

 

“Nah. Well. In manner of speaking. Now, I’m not one to kiss and tell -”

 

“We must disagree here, my shaggy friend,” Reinhardt informs him, somehow both jovial and grave. McCree sighs.

 

“Alright, damn. You got me. I mean it though, partner; nothin’ to grease the ol’ bones than to grease the ol’ b-”

 

“I oughta snap your damn neck.”

 

“You can try, Padre, but I’d hate to see the havoc it’d wreak on your dusty joints to jump this here coffee table.”

 

Jack doesn’t think he’s ever polished off a beer in a more sullen fashion in his life. 

 

And then Reinhardt hands him another.

  
  


* * *

 

 

He doesn’t think about it, really. Not all that much. It’s a brief consideration when he finally drifts off to sleep, and then it’s forgotten entirely through his morning jog, through breakfast, through post-breakfast rifle maintenance. It doesn’t really creep back into his stream of consciousness until he’s found out again by Hana and Shimada the younger, looking for a sharp-shooting contest. 

 

Genji wins by a mile through nearly every one of Hana’s rematch demands. The young soldier squawks and the ninja responds coolly, slyly, a hint of his age old cockiness peering through the cracks of his shiny new equanimity. They snipe back-and-forth fondly for a time, and then they turn on him, but he lets most of it slide. Water off a duck’s back.

 

Jack thinks, for a while, on youth.

  
  


* * *

 

 

Border checkpoints and weapons smugglers. Feels glib to call it run of the mill, but Jack’s too old not to call it like he sees it. It’s a job he’s done a hundred times, and with his luck, it’s one he’ll do a hundred more. Winston’s intel called them rogue Talon defectors, en route to pawn off stolen tech. It stirred up some interest at the base, but in Jack’s book, the enemy of their enemy is still probably their enemy.

 

McCree and Shimada the elder tend to their weapons just right of him with the fondness of fighting men. Genji and his mentor hide above at a distance, where Hanzo is soon to retreat. Zaryanova props herself against one of the biggest guns Jack’s ever seen on the other side of Hanzo and McCree. A particle cannon, she calls it, and Jack damn well believes it.

 

All but three lanes are closed: one manned by Zaryanova, one by Jack himself, and one in the middle by, bizarrely, the two most regular Joe-looking schmoes they’ve got along - which is saying something when one of them’s got spurs on his pistol.

 

From above, on the topmost arch of the electronic lane screens, Genji speaks through the comm. “We have found the heat signatures of three vehicles, four guards. Armed.”

 

“Are there any other kind?” McCree hums. Wise-ass. Hanzo flicks a dismissive hand in his direction.

 

“At their speed, you should expect them in no more than two minutes, seventeen seconds.”

 

“Everyone in position,” Jack growls into his own communicator. Force of habit, but not rhetorical. Zarya gives confirmation, Hanzo ducks out of the booth and scales the high board before offering his, and in a handful of seconds, Genji updates them.

 

“Two minutes, four seconds.”

 

“I have eyes, metal man, and a watch,” Zarya snorts. 

 

“One minute, fifty-seven…”

 

He goes on for a time, though in the distance along the highway, six headlights come into view. Jack runs through the plan in his head for the hundredth time: At the gate, once stalled, Genji will descend and compromise the tires of vehicles one, two, and three. Considering their underwhelming numbers, with Genji flanking, Jack, McCree, and Zarya muscling in, Hanzo with eyes trained above, and Zenyatta beside him as blunt force damage and support in one, detainment ought to be a piece of cake.

 

“Thirty-nine - ”

 

A crack rings out in the valley, too close for comfort, and the foremost pair of headlights sway in the distance. Almost imperceptibly at first, and then it weaves once, twice, and swerves off the road. The armed car bounces down in a ditch and rolls, but before that can fully be processed by his sharp-tongued squadron, another deafening  _ crack _ rings out.

 

Just a little to his left. 

 

Jack misses the catastrophe of the second car sent careening off the road when he whips his head around, visor locked onto the heat signature of the booth to his left. What was decidedly cold and empty not one damn minute ago lights up like a Christmas tree in the form of…

 

Legs. Legs, and plenty of ‘em. 

 

The body - the  _ body _ swathed in the signature of his visor glows red-hot, long limbs positioned with precision, steadily manning a rifle, just as hot. The din of his scrambling teammates washes back in with the third shot, and smooth as a cat, slippery as a fox, the body in the booth ducks out. 

 

Whoever she is keeps to the shadows, but Jack’s people are well-trained. “Halt!” Hanzo barks, but the hot, hot heat signature pays him no mind. 

 

Jack’s… well, Jack’s not rightly sure how she manages to sprint in those heels, but as the final car clips the tail of the second and goes tumbling ass over teakettle along the pavement, she runs to meet it. 

 

“Stay put,” Jack barks into his comm, “eyes on her,” and vaults the open window to give chase. 

 

She’s fast, sure. They’re all fast. But Jack’s bred to be faster.

 

But she got the jump, and though he’s fast-approaching, Jack watches as she smoothly hops up onto the crumpled side facing skyward, legs spread for balance while she wrenches the busted door up and away, and Jack… well, Jack’s hoping the road isn’t paved well so he’ll have a better excuse for nearly tripping over his damn feet. 

 

He’s paid no mind when he approaches, weapon drawn and trained on her, and in a handful of seconds he knows why. Something glows on the ground five paces away, faintly glowing on his visor. The shape of it reminds him, vaguely, of a spider. Some sort of proximity mine, he’d wager, and Jack has no intention of setting it off. 

 

Slowly instead, he hedges around to the other side of the car without ever taking his eyes off of… 

 

Lord, but she does cut a nice figure. “Hold,” he growls, but it’s like he isn’t even there. The curve of her form as she positions the gun straight down, between her legs - 

 

Not a single crack this time, but a quick pulse of three, and whoever Armed Guard Number 4 was doesn’t even have the chance to scream. 

 

The enemy of his enemy’s enemy is not necessarily -

 

“This is official Overwatch business,” Jack informs mystery heat signature, codename: Legs. “We were gonna bring them in.”

 

She straightens, posture impeccable, ass celestial. “And now,” she purrs, “you are not.”

 

Can’t argue with her there.    
  


“I don’t suppose you’ll come quietly.” Jack lifts his rifle a little higher. Her throaty laughter sends goosebumps all up and down Jack’s arms.

 

“An inadvisable thing to ask a woman.” 

 

From somewhere in the skintight piece she’s got on, she plucks a device and, without further ado, flicks it toward him. In the split second he has to watch it in her hand, he identifies it as identical to the proximity mine on the other side of the car. 

 

The reflexes of an old soldier kick in, and he shoots it out of the air. It explodes on impact, and a poison field bursts, swathing him in deep indigo miasma. His visor filters through the worst of it, but by the time he’s done waving the cloudburst away, codename: Legs has disappeared.

 

“-son, Morrison, you son of a gun, what’re you just standing around for?”

 

Jack returns to the others, but not before recording a scan of the device left on the ground for further analysis. And with another scan, confirms: “All quarries, dead.”

 

“No shit,” McCree mutters. Insubordinate. Always one of Gabe’s. “We all know who that was. ‘Course they’re dead.”

 

Jack pauses mid-step. 

 

“You can identify the assailant?”

 

“What, and you can’t?”

 

No, Jack thinks. He’s never seen a pair of legs, a gun, an ass quite like that.

 

They round up the weapons, the IDs, inform the local authorities, and it’s only on the jet home that the others fill him in on Talon agent Widowmaker.

 

And it isn’t until Jesse catches him a couple days later scanning over what little intel Overwatch has compiled of her on a tablet in his lap that he’s told, “Hope that look in your eye doesn’t mean what I think it means, or you’re a real dumbass.”

 

Jack elects not to answer, scrolling down the file. He may be a dumbass, but he’s a dumbass with a plan. 

 

* * *

 

Jack keeps the tablet in his room, looks over grainy photographs, and thinks pretty goddamn hard on youth.

 

He thinks of pressing those thighs together and rutting between them. He thinks of heat, and muscle, and the slick hot slide of her. He thinks of the slow, steady roll of his come down the plush insides of her thighs, thinks of the swell of her ass and the bounce of her tits, and what it might look like under his hands. 

 

And he drags a hand over his dick in the dark solitude of his bunk, lusting after a deadly heat signature.

 

* * *

  
  


The ambassador’s basement is well-furnished, and from the classified building schematics Jack knows it’s big enough to comfortably house a family of four. From the schematics, he’s also aware of the hidden vault located directly behind the home theater screen which is conveniently cracked upon his arrival. 

 

The ambassador’s husband and their two children are out for the evening; a ballet is performing at the heart of the city, an approximate forty minute drive in Friday evening traffic. The family received tickets as a gift from a visiting dignitary of French origin. The ambassador himself is not in attendance. 

 

No, he isn’t finding his seat in a packed theatre, because instead he’s zip tied and gagged in his own bunker, an austere man tucked in a pathetic position between shelves upon shelves of vacuum-sealed non-expirables. Jack sees the shape of him through the wall, red-hot with anxiety.

 

And there between him, on the other side of the screen radiating a much stands the Widowmaker, a vision in a somewhat cooler shade of red-orange. She’s exactly as Jack remembered, all high heels and poise. He can’t hear what she’s saying, if anything at all, but he can hear the ambassador’s muffled groans, his desperation. 

 

Winston gave Jack a mission to protect the ambassador from the Talon attack plans they managed to , orders Jack intends to follow. But Jack’s on something of a mission of his own.

 

He pulls open the silent panel and switches the heat-seeking function on his visor to OFF.

 

Huh. She’s even bluer than in the photographs.

 

“Knock knock.”

 

She whips around, training her rifle in him in the same motion. Jack lifts his own right back.

 

“This doesn’t have to get ugly.”

 

“No,” she agrees. “I prefer my kills clean.”

 

Jack was never built for negotiation; following orders came first, issuing them came second, and that’s right about where his expertise ends. He wasn’t trained for diplomatic approach.

 

Fortunately or unfortunately, the agents of Talon aren’t known for their reception to diplomacy.

 

Conventionally-speaking.

 

“I was thinking we might... come to an arrangement.”

 

She scoffs, cocking a hip. The Widowmaker doesn’t lower her weapon even a fraction, and neither does he, though the new jut of her hip proves... distracting. He can’t afford to think of those curves and what it might be like to follow where they lead with his own two hands. 

 

Then again... he can’t exactly afford not to, either.

 

“What could you possibly have to offer me?” she says loftily, eying him down the length of her nose. But she does eye him. Jack may be a few years... decades out of the game, but he’s not blind. Mostly. He knows a once-over when he sees it.

 

“I can think of a few things.” He tilts his chin. “I need him alive. Maybe we can work something out.”

 

“You want to negotiate. It will put a *stain,” she hisses, making the ambassador whimper, “on my record.”

 

“Can’t be all that pristine. We’re professionals. You know that  sometimes on a job, you’ve gotta get a little dirty.”

 

The Widowmaker stares him down for several long, frosty seconds. Then, with one elegant shoulder, she shrugs.

 

“Perhaps.”

 

Following this concession, she pulls a glowing indigo venom mine from the cuff of her boot and flicks it up at the ceiling, where it clings directly over the ambassador’s head. Crooning something in French to the petrified man in partinf, she ushers Jack out of the room with her rifle.

 

Behind them, she shuts the screen panel ti the bunker with a hip.

 

“You wanted my attention,” she says. “You have it, on limited supply.”

 

She stands before him now closer than ever, little more than arm’s length from Jack. Up close, without her heat signature flaring, he can see her eyes are full moon yellow.Unnatural. And the rest of her…

 

“Time is running out, soldier,” she murmurs, her hair a long curtain that follows her every move. “Tick. Tock.”

 

“You might wanna make yourself comfortable,” he says, glancing over at the L-shaped, plush, white leather sofa spanning half the length of the room. Even the couch on base, made to fit the entire crew comfortably, isn’t quite this long. An eyebrow goes up.

 

“I feel most comfortable with a gun in my hand.”

 

Jack takes a minute to soak in the sight of a tall, lethal woman with a tall, lethal gun. He shrugs.

 

“You can keep it.”

 

She sniffs and breezes past him. “I am touched by your permission,” she coolly tells him, and perches herself on the sofa. True to form, the rifle stays situated in her lap.

 

Slowly, deliberately, she crosses one long leg over the other.

 

And Jack pulls the visor from his face.

 

She doesn’t hide the shrewdness in her gaze, the cold hard calculation there. It’d bother him more if the whole damn world didn’t already know he was John Jack Morrison. Sentimentality drives him even less than self-preservation in removing his visor. It isn’t affection that pulls him toward her, nor fondness that brings him to his knees.

 

It’s the gravity of reverence. It’s the nights he’s spent tracing her heat signature over in his mind, thighs and calves and a perfect ass that’s dragged groans from deep in his throat, rutting into his palm like a teenager again.

 

The eyebrow goes up again, but she doesn’t stop him when he gazes up, blue eyes through his pale eyelashes, a hand on her topmost knee.

 

“What do you say the payback starts here.”

 

“And where does it end?” she coos, lifting his chin with the toe of her boot.

 

Jack squeezes her knee in warning. “How many little deaths for a life?”

 

And then, she laughs.

 

“You think very highly of yourself, for a dead soldier,” she purrs. She doesn’t push him away or split his skull open with the butt of her rifle, and Jack takes that as permission enough. He drags her thighs apart, pulling her forward towards the edge of the sofa. The Widowmaker doesn’t lose her balance, though she does grip her gun a little tighter for a slip second. A smirk stretches across the scarred lower half of his face.

 

Slowly, meeting her full moon eyes all the while, Jack slides his palms up her inner thighs. Her leggings are smooth, and beneath her flesh is hot, her thighs firm with muscle. He’s thought about this a lot, but naturally, reality is better.

 

“These come off?” he asks, plucking at the material. She bats his hand away in warning.

 

“If I am properly convinced.”

 

“Well, ma’am,” he drones, “I aim to try.”

 

His thumbs dip closer to her core and she makes a thoughtful noise.

 

“Perhaps you should aim a little higher.”

 

Jack glances up and grips at her thighs, pulling her even closer to the edge. The breadth of his shoulders force her legs to spread a handful of inches further - “Flexible,” he mutters - and sweeps his thumb in a long line between her legs. 

 

Under his palms, her thighs tense, but the Widowmaker remains silent. Watching. Jack drags his thumb back up, feeling her out through the material of her shiny purple getup, and when he finds the apex, he  _ presses _ . 

 

“Hmm.” She leans back, and if he’s not mistaken, her thighs spread just a little wider. “Not entirely useless, soldier boy.” 

 

“That’s sir to you,” he growls, more or less a reflex, but he can feel her thighs tense again as a throaty laugh escapes her. 

 

_ “Sir.” _

 

It’s mockery, but damn if it doesn’t sound good falling from those lips. 

 

Sitting higher up on his knees, two fingers now, palm curled upward, Jack resumes the slow back and forth. Draws circles at times, exactly where he ought to, and presses with his thumb just to watch her eyelashes flutter. Slowly but surely, her posture starts to change; she sinks back into the sofa, legs splayed around his sides, her breasts rising and falling with every breath. Especially the sharp ones.

 

She’s wet. He can feel it through her suit, see it. Jack smirks. “High enough for you?” 

 

Widowmaker sits up a little and curses, bending a knee back to plant her heel at his shoulder. “You asked if it came off,” she says, and fondles the zipper over her sternum. Jack grips her calf with a hand, meeting her eye for eye. 

 

“Why don’t you let me do that.”

 

With a keen sort of look, she lowers her hand, but not her boot.

 

Well.

 

Jack shoulders his way closer, lifting her foot and hooking her knee over his shoulder as he unzips her skintight suit. 

 

When it finally slips off her shoulders, Jack groans, pressing his face to her chest. She smells like perfume and sweat, and with his free hand he tugs one shoulder completely free of the suit. Jack palms at her naked breast before he slides his hand down, down her stomach, past where the zipper stops, and that’s - lace. 

  
He’d imagined lace. Lace, or nothing at all. “Shit,” he breathes, dipping his fingers below the lace to press against the wet heat of her. She’s slick, and when he presses his middle finger to her clit, she finally makes a noise. Soft, low, and her head falls back against the sofa. 

 

“Take it off,” she demands, quiet and dangerous. Jack leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss to her bare breast before sinking his teeth into the ripe flesh. She gasps, heel digging into his back. And then Jack complies. 

 

He strips her, top-down, more and more blue skin on display as he peels the suit from her body. “Goddamn, you’re something else,” he growls, yanking the suit over her hips. He stops once he’s tugged the material halfway down her thighs, surveys his progress, and leaves it. 

 

“What are you doing,” she says, quirking a brow Even naked and sprawled, her hair is a pristine swath against the white sofa, her face imperious. “Do you not know how to undress a woman?”

 

“I know plenty,” he says, and presses the knee over his shoulder closer to her chest. “I’m gonna keep this here. Figure you’re flexible enough for it,” Jack muses, and ducks down below the suit entrapping her mid-thigh and cozies up right to her cunt. 

 

He can smell her so strongly here, soaked through her black lace panties - sweat and sex and fabric softener. “Been thinking about this,” he tells her, mouthing at the damp fabric. Another gasp - this one, higher. “Wanna get my mouth on you. Goddamn, I want to get one thing or another right up inside you.”

 

“What a ludicrous combination of words,” she breathes, the heel of her boot to his shoulder. Jack grazes his mouth over her clit, and her hips give a little twitch.

 

“Got a lot I wanna do to you. God, I wanna fuck you.” He drags the tip of his tongue along the petal-soft fabric, and her thighs flex around his head. “You gonna let me fuck you?”

 

She reaches down, her own fingertips skimming just under the lacy waistband of her panties. “Are you going to talk the entire time?”

 

“Maybe I am.” He nips at her fingers before he mouths at her clit again, word for word. “Maybe you’ll like it.” 

 

“Your voice is like shrapnel,” she sneers. But when his fingers slip through the leg of her lace and against her again, her pretty lips fall open.

 

“Huh. Maybe you like shrapnel.”

 

When he pulls the fabric aside and finally, finally gets his mouth on her, his cock makes a desperate twitch where it’s trapped against his thigh. He presses a hand against himself, drawing the tip of his tongue in a broad circle around her clit before he swipes it with the flat of his tongue. The Widowmaker goes white-knuckled around the butt of her rifle where it’s trapped between her stomach and her leg, a mouthful of French he doesn’t understand nearly a whisper on her breath.

 

It’s a tight fight, crushed between her thighs, and he’s felt the muscle there; he knows in a heartbeat she might crush his skull like a melon. His cock throbs almost painfully, and with a groan he pulls back and under. 

 

“Get these off,” he orders, knocking at her boots with his knuckles. She regards him coolly for the command, it doesn’t last forever. He stretches out over the sofa, propped up on his elbows to watch her shuck her boots. She stepd out of her suit and leggings next. Her rifle lays over the arm of the sofa, but Jack isn’t under any illusions that it’s unattended. Even totally nude, her condescension is impeccable as she offers him a showman’s bow. “And where would you have me,  _ sir?” _

 

“Where the hell do you think,” he grunts and drags her in by the back of a thigh. Laughter deep in her throat, the Widowmaker swings the opposite leg over his chest and rests on her knees just over his face.

 

“Don’t I feel like a prize stallion.”

 

She smiles cruelly and reaches down to cradle a steadying hand to his scalp. “Do not think of yourself so highly before we are through,  mon cher. You seem to me a workhorse at best.”

 

“Huh. Then I should get to workin’.”

 

She poises herself over him like a black adder readying a strike, but Jack’s been thinking about this moment for too damn long to adopt the virtue of patience now. He grabs two handfuls of the finest ass he’s seen in years and drags her down.

 

Jack feasts like a man half starved. If he had to name his technique - or lack thereof - “sloppy” would be accurate. “Enthusiastic” was a spin an optimist might make. “Unrefined”, he thinks, is how she’ll remember this when she’s not twitching and grinding against his nose as he dips his tongue inside her. And he’ll make damn sure she remembers. 

 

She jumps a little when he gives her ass a squeeze with both hands, smearing his nose and upper lip. He knows exactly what a string of curses sounds like, language barrier or no.

 

“You like that?” he rasps every word against her, squeezing her ass again. She pants, offering nothing but a glare in response. “You like it a little rough, huh? How’d you like it if I manhandled you over the back of this couch and spread your legs, lifted you up, and dragged you back onto my cock until -”

 

With a little gasp, she shudders and grinds down and Jack obligingly occupies his errant tongue with helping her ride it out.

 

“Manhandling,” she spits, carding her fingers through his hair before she grips it in a fist. “Your language is uncouth.”

 

Jack kneads thoughtfully at her ass before he sits, dropping her in his lap.“I think you like uncouth.”

 

She falls back of her own accord, legs sprawled across his lap until they coil and constrict around him. “You think far too much.”

 

Just like this, as close as they are, if he were free of his godforsaken pants, he could slip himself inside her with a hand. Honestly? Fuck his pants.

 

Jack unclasps his utility belt and drapes it over the back of the couch before his belt comes off, his camo unbuttoned. The Widowmaker stretches languidly, arms above her head, her body an arched, taut line of power and grace. Jack can still see the teeth marks left on her tits, and palms at his aching dick. 

 

“Christ, you’re something else.” 

 

She watches him with an unreadable expression and bends a knee upward, her stockinged toes tilting his chin up. He can hear the scrape of silk on stubble, grabs her ankle and pulls it away. When it rests on his shoulder, Jack lets the hand wander down her shapely calf, the inside of her knee (which doesn’t make her twitch. Disappointing, if not unexpected), a smooth inner thigh. Jack parts the lips with two fingers and dips his thumb inside. It’s as slick and hot as it had been on his tongue, and he muffles a groan at the thought of shoving his cock inside again, and again, and again - 

 

“Is it so strange to you?” the Widowmaker sneers, squeezing around his thumb. Despite the snark, she does twitch and gasp when he twists his thumb deeper inside. “You had your mouth upon it only a moment ago.”

 

“Can’t a man enjoy the view?” he murmurs, slipping his thumb out and back in, slowly fucking her on the broad digit. The Widowmaker rolls her golden eyes before she closes them, lifting a hand to knead at one of her breasts. Jack loses himself for a moment in the steady motion of his hand and the motion of hers, a dark blue nipple rolled between her thumb and forefinger. Her painted lips part, just a fraction, and Jack pulls his thumb out to swipe over her clit.

 

_ “Merde,” _ she hisses, her ankle shifting on Jack’s shoulder. She pulls herself up with it, just a little, enough to drive herself against the slick press of his thumb. The Widowmaker slides a hand down her belly, just above his, and Jack pulls his hand away to shift his fly all the way down. He pulls himself out of his briefs, the elastic snug below his balls, and gets two more handfuls of sumptuous ass to drag her in a few scant inches. Spread wide open like this, one leg around his waist, the other propped up on his shoulder, Jack could just slide right in. 

 

She raises a brow at the condom he pulls from the pocket of his jacket before he slips that off, too. Comfort isn’t the name of the game, strictly speaking, but there’s something to be said for the way she looks over his shoulders and chest swathed in his olive green undershirt. The sleeves, as always, are just a hair too tight on his biceps, but that’s one criticism she doesn’t seem to have for him. 

 

Jack slides the condom over his dick under her hawkish gaze. He taps at her engorged clit with the head of his cock, and again, it makes her hips twitch. Back and forth, back and forth, he rubs until she’s spitting like a cat, and that’s when he pushes the head right inside her.

 

Broader by far than his thumb, the fit takes a short moment that the Widowmaker uses to rub at herself. Her inner walls flare around him, and Jack has to grab the base of his dick in a vice to keep from embarrassing himself. He’s been waiting too damn long.

 

With her pelvis tilted up in his lap, and sitting cross-legged as he is, she grows impatient as he grows desperate with the lack of motion. So Jack unfolds his legs, popping out of her just long enough to rise up on his knees, taking her hips with him.. The change in height is too awkward for her ankle to stay on his shoulder, so she lets it fall, wrapped with the other around his waist as he ruts against her like he can’t help himself. Maybe he can’t. 

 

“Fuck me, will you, before I’m as old as -” she begins, and Jack’s always been the order-following sort of boy. Before she can even finish, he guides himself inside and slips right in. 

 

Patience and impatience war in Jack’s body as he forces himself to fuck in a little more slowly than he’d like. The Widowmaker’s tits bounce with every shallow thrust, and her hair, her immaculate hair, weaves several winding rivers of discord over the white leather sofa. 

 

“More,” she demands, watching him over the slope of her body. “Harder.”

 

“You want more?” he mumbles, and presses in deep. “I can do that.” He drags himself out real, real slow and shoves himself back inside. “Could probably manage harder, too.”

 

“Stop,” she pants, running fingers over her stomach, “stop talking.”

 

Jack fucks into her again and again until she palms at one of her breasts.

 

“Don’t think I will, ma’am.” 

 

He sets a pace, though it takes a moment, and that’s long enough for the Widowmaker to start laughing again. That deep sonorous series of notes does things to his cock, and Jack grips just a bit tighter to her ass. 

 

Her fingers slide back up her belly, though, and Jack can maybe see why.

 

Her long, long fingers press over a spot low in her abdomen where, for the way she’s propped up by her ass, from his elevated position, for the way she’s stretched so damn taut, with each time he roots himself inside her, he can see himself poke up through her stomach.

 

It doesn’t make him laugh, though.

 

“Fuck,” he pants, and fucks in again to watch, mesmerized. And again. And again. 

 

Jack drags his palm over her pubic mound before pressing the heel of his palm against her clit. He grinds a slow rotation there as his hips mellow every push. In this position she’s helpless, unable to meet him except for the scantest twitch of her hips. She makes up for it by going tight around him at disarming intervals, where she earns herself the admonishing reward of a sharper thrust.

 

When the Widowmaker comes again, it’s all but a silent affair - a quick intake of breath before she goes limp, more boneless than before. Yet somehow, she still musters the energy to smack his hand away from her over-sensitized flesh.

 

Jack pulls out, the slide of it wet and obscene in the wide open room, and he lowers her fully to the couch for the first time. The Widowmaker stretches herself out, the very picture of languidity.

 

“A pity,” she sighs, pressing a stockinged foot to his groin. Jack starts.

 

“W- uh. What is?”

 

“I thought perhaps I might test even your stamina.”

 

“Believe me,” he grunts, rocking his hips shamelessly into the cradle of her foot, “it’s tested.”

 

With her toes, she presses his cock to his stomach, and if Jack didn’t know better, he might call it playful.

 

“Uhh,” he starts, gripping the meat of her calf to halt the steady press of her foot, “unique as the experience might be, I don’t intend to, uh… come on account of your feet.”

 

“They are very nice feet,” she says, glib as anything. Jack, the sucker, finds himself nodding. 

 

“Yeah. Yeah, real nice.”  Jack swipes his tongue along his top lip and pulls her very nice foot away.

 

In the time it takes for him to roll on a new condom, the Widowmaker just stares. He doesn’t know exactly what she’s calculating until he’s done, when she slinks up to him and presses a hand to his chest.

 

“Down, soldier,” she purrs, and Jack concedes, running his hands up the backs of her thighs when she climbs on top of him. The Widowmaker meets his eyes when she straddles him. Jack’s jaw drops and his head falls back when she moves against him like a pendulum, back and forth, back and forth. He can feel the tense and release of her muscles under his grip, and Jack enjoys that until his eyelashes flutter before he reaches up for her ass to drag her closer.

 

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he says through gritted teeth, rutting up and pulling her down again and again. 

 

“You are not only wrong, but you are wrong three times over,” the Widowmaker tuts, and resists his grasp just enough to raise herself higher. With a hand, she guides him back inside her and allows him to pull her back down. 

 

Jack stares down between them, where he’s pressed up inside her, and briefly his memory surges back to night after night of fantasy, and a little chuckle punches up out of his throat. The Widowmaker sinks down so far he can’t even see himself, and she narrows her eyes. 

 

“Is something funny?”

 

“Yeah,” he says, and shakes his head. “No. I’ve thought about this a lot, y’ see.”

 

“So you said.” She rises again, hands pressed to his chest, high enough to squeeze just around his head. He rolls his hips up in retaliation. 

 

“Thought about fucking you, yeah,” he grunts, spreading his legs further apart for more leverage as he fucks up into her on his own power. She rides like a champion, leaning back to grip at one of his knees, her long body undulating with every move. Jack grunts. “Thought about fucking between your thighs. Thought about comin’, watching it run down your legs, your perfect damn legs.”

 

The bob of her breasts is distracting, and Jack’s running his mouth, he knows he is. It’s hard to focus, or to breathe, or find rhythm, or... Everything’s just  _ hard _ . 

 

The Widowmaker scoffs, a cocktail of disdain and intrigue alight in her eyes. “You really are all the same.”

 

Jack huffs a laugh, sitting up and surging forward until she’s flat on her back, folding her in half like the prettiest pretzel he’s ever fucked, and damn, these analogies really run away with him when he’s balls-deep inside a flexible woman. “Maybe, yeah,” he says, getting cozy as her ankles cross at the small of his back. “But I’m the one here right now.”

 

“Ugh.” She wrinkles her nose. “Yes. True. Get on with it, if you please.”

 

“Yes ma’am, I do please.”

 

When her walls go vice-tight around him, Jack makes the mistake of smacking the back of a thigh; swifter than a snake, her neck arches up and she latches her teeth onto the side of his neck. He cries out, just for a second, before he can temper it. It’s unlike any bite Jack’s ever received in bed, vicious and daunting. Pain flares from the wound in sickening waves that pulsate, sharp-sharp, dull-sharp. This isn’t play - it’s a warning. 

 

When she releases him, Jack has to wonder if the trickle he feels down the side of his neck is saliva or blood.

 

“Strike me again,” she hisses, an adder once more, “and I will tear out your throat and spit it into your mouth.”

 

Dull-sharp, dull-sharp pounding pain. 

 

“Duly noted,” Jack rasps with a wince. “Sorry.”

 

She squeezes around him again, and this time, he responds only by pushing further inside. 

 

Jack lifts both her knees onto his shoulders, and she takes to it with ease. He presses his tongue, his teeth to a nipple, and it kicks off another string of French he’s really starting to get into. Never really been one for the language before, but Jack thinks the Widowmaker might get him into quite a lot of things without much convincing at all.

 

Dropping his head onto the Widowmaker’s shoulder, he finds his rhythm, the pace kicking up as he feels himself winding up tight at a spring. She breathes cruel laughter into his ear and on the side of his neck opposite the bite, she presses her mouth to flesh in a mockery of a kiss.

 

Her stockings are fine and sleek where they rub down the small of his back, but not nearly as fine or sleek as the Widowmaker herself where she envelops him, a heat that feels only more perfect the closer he is to coming. 

 

“ _ Christ _ ,” he pants, hips snapping forward, the scent of her perfume overwhelming. He could die here, inside the body of his enemy, her nails running lines down his spine. They could be poisoned, for all he knows, and Jack really very truly does not care.

 

She laughs and rakes those nails over his shoulders, dug far enough in that Jack knows he’ll feel them for days. “Again, you flatter me. I am not so holy.”

 

“Coulda fooled me,” he laughs back, weakly, straining. “Christ, I’m gonna… it’s not gonna be long, I…”

 

“It is a shame,” she cuts in, retracing the lines made by her nails almost exactly, scraping again across tender flesh. “You are so close, you have come so far, and yet you will never see… mm, what was it? What were you so desperate for, old soldier?” Her teeth sink into the lobe of his ear, not unkindly, and tug. 

 

Jack manages, quite aptly, a, “Guh. Fuck.”

 

“Ah, yes. Proof of your  _ conquest  _ running down my legs.”

 

“Now, hold on a minute -” he protests, but she presses a finger to his lips and pulls back. A look of false sympathy crosses her wicked face.

 

“Shh, shh. Be silent. You will always have such a thing in your dreams, will you not? And now you’ll have this memory to carry you on long, cold nights.”  

 

Jack sits up a little higher, propped up on a hand by her head, elbow locked. The other reaches down between them to stroke once again at the engorged nub at the apex of her cunt. With a voice like shrapnel, he says, “Now, I wouldn’t call that a loss.”

 

Her eyes flutter closed, and in a surprising move, with a few slow twists of her hips, the Widowmaker’s lips part and she gasps. Her walls shudder and clench around him as she comes, lucky number three. Her chests rises and falls with every breath, bounces with every push from his cock. 

 

Slowly, full moon yellow peers out from the cracks, framed by eyelashes too long to be legal.

 

“Put a gun to my head,” she drawls, reaching down, “and I still would not call you selfless,” and the Widowmaker takes his hand, slick and smeared with her essence, and draws it up to her mouth. Holding his gaze, she draws her tongue between his thick fore- and middle fingers before taking them deep into her mouth. She sucks and lavs at the callused pads and swallows around them, and that more than anything does him in.

 

Jack’s hips shove frantically against her, erratic for a handful of hot-breath seconds before they slow, and slow, and finally stop. The lights exploding in the back of his mind settle quicker than his breath as he pulls out of her tight body with a wince, and flops between her and the back of the sofa.

  
  


There’s no afterglow-basking on the ambassador’s couch; the Widowmaker swings her legs over the side and immediately begins to dress herself, efficiency in every move. He only gets to admire the way black lace frames her generous ass before the leggings of her suit slide up and up, over her thighs, her hips, her shoulders. Then the boots - those blessed boots - are buckled and snapped into place. 

 

With a quick comb through her hair, the Widowmaker lifts her gun, and it’s like nothing ever happened at all.

 

“Put yourself away,” she says, gesturing with her chin at his pathetically re-interested dick. Still, Jack complies, tucking himself back into his briefs. He’s a little slower to recover, lounging back against the couch as he puts his clothes to rights. 

 

The Widowmaker takes a long look at the home theater screen panel and waves a hand in Jack’s direction. 

 

“Very well. He is yours.”

 

Jack blinks. He’s not sure whether he’s more surprised that she isn’t attempting something a little more underhanded, or that there was a possibility she’d go back on a word she’d never really given in the first place. 

 

“Uh. Thanks.”

 

She scoffs. “You did a passable job,” she says, glancing at him over her shoulder with a wicked smile before she moves toward the basement door.  _ “Sir.  _ Au revoir.”

 

“Be seeing you,” he says, almost hopeful. She snorts. 

 

“I very much doubt it.” And with the twist of a knob, the Widowmaker takes her leave.

 

* * *

  
  


Jack knows exactly how worn out he looks when he trudges his way through the backdoor at base. He seals it up tight behind himself, and walks the long path up to the kitchen. There at the table, lit up by the overhead lamps, Reinhardt and McCree nurse a couple of beers. Different label. Probably still shit. 

 

McCree whistles low, looking him up and down. “Damn, man. You look like you’ve been chewed up and spit out by somethin’ real mean.”

 

“In a manner of speaking,” Jack allows. The chair squeaks when he drags it back across the tile, flipping it around to straddle the back. 

 

“Heard the mission was a success, though,” McCree goes on, and Reinhardt sets his bottle down. 

 

“The ambassador lives! Your infiltration skills have improved, Jack!”

 

“Still look like shit, though. You alright?” McCree takes a swig of his beer. “Need me to wake the good doctor?”

Jack folds his arms over the back of his chair and pillows his forehead with a wrist. He’s too tired to keep his head up, and he doesn’t mind baring his neck to a knight and a clown. Which….

 

“You son of a gun.”

 

Jack peeks up, glaring at McCree’s wondering tone. 

  
“What?”

 

McCree leans back in his chair with a laugh, gesturing toward Jack’s neck. “Well I’ll be. Didn’t know you still had it in you, old-timer.”

 

“My friend, you were certainly chewed up,” Reinhardt laughs. Jack lifts a hand to his neck, and presses against a sore mark. Jesse groans. 

 

“He get bit?” McCree hoots, leaning over for a look. “Man, I was talkin’ about the lipstick!” 

 

Dragging his fingers over the other side of his neck, Jack feels something smoother than the tackiness of his sweat and pulls them away to see smears of blue.

 

Jack looks at his old friend, his comrades, and after a moment, shrugs. “Yeah,” he agrees, mouth stretching in a grin. He sticks his fist up in the air, to a pair of hoots and hollers. “Might be I took your advice.”

 

Two beers comes sliding at him, one from both sides, and Jack shares in a toast to himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Inquire about fic requests [here!](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/ask)  
> Tumblr: [wardencommando](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/).  
> Battle.net ID: byacolate#1589


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